Collisions
by shadows-of-1832
Summary: It was just supposed to be a normal day for them. The accident...it was never in their plans. Modern AU. One-shot.


**Author's Note: So I took a slight detour from writing the series of one-shots, but this came into my head after having to drive on snowy roads in bad weather conditions...and after sliding off the said roads a little over a week ago. I'm fine, obviously, and I know some aren't as lucky, because honestly, things could have been _a lot_ worse. **

**Reviews are appreciated...and enjoy!**

It was just supposed to be a normal day for them. He was going to drop her off at work before heading to the office, and at the end of the day, pick her up on his way back through. Afterwards, accompany her to the doctor's office, go home, have dinner, and then go to bed. Nothing more, nothing less.

He knew the weather was bad out there, the snow coming down in blankets faster than the snowplows could move over to the side of the road. Getting his car brushed off was enough of a hassle, not to mention the fact that their driveway was covered in a few inches of snow.

After pulling out of the driveway, he figured the worst was over. The rest of the way, he would just have to be careful on the roads and travel slower than usual, which wouldn't be a problem as long as they left the house early enough so they could arrive at the respectful destinations safely and on time.

While he was driving, he wasn't too surprised that there were times that it was difficult to tell what was and wasn't the road. There were times where she would mention he was getting too far to the other side, and how she knew that, he didn't know, and wasn't going to argue.

He was going about thirty miles per hour, give or take a few. She was sitting there quietly and patiently, a hand over her stomach as she "helped" him watch the road, humming a little tune to herself.

The car slides to the right, the tires getting caught in a few inches worth of snow, but without much difficultly, he is able to correct it and they continue on their way.

The car slides to the right again not even a few minutes later, and he tries to correct it once more before he ends up on the left side of the road, the wrong side. He hears her scream, what about he doesn't know, and he does his best to get them back on the right side of the road, tuning out her panicking as he attempts to adjust further to the weather conditions.

He doesn't see the other car.

When he does, it's too late. He hears her scream when the two vehicles collide. He sees the cars come together, hears the glass shatter, before his world goes black.

The next time he sees the world again, it's nearly white. The walls, the ceiling, the sheets he's covered in, all white. Small glance to the floor—white tile with small greenish-blue specks on them. He notices the machines, and he doesn't second guess where he's at.

He can make out the brightly-colored flowers at his bedside (no doubt, a gift from Jehan), along with a small pile of pale envelopes leaning up against the vase. He can tell through the blinds that the weather is almost as bad as it was before, perhaps even worse, as he can barely see anything other than the well-faded shapes of bare trees in the distance.

The first person he sees is Combeferre, who must have been there the whole time, waiting for him to open his eyes. Beneath his tired eyes are dark circles, visible enough to be seen with his glasses on. He doesn't say much as he gently clasps his hand, careful not to cause any harm. There is an air of sadness with him, he senses it, but remains silent.

"How are you feeling?" Combeferre finally asks after a few still moments pass.

"Fine." he manages, only to take notice of the agony he feels in his right shoulder, resulting in an abrupt yelp at the realization. He tries to sit up, and he doesn't protest when Combeferre tells him not to.

"Lay back down, Enjolras." Combeferre orders, and his motions stop. "You need to be careful. You have a few cracked ribs that need to heal, and on top of that, I have been informed that your right collarbone is broken, and your leg was 'pretty banged up' as well…That's how Marius put it, to say the least."

"Anything else I should know about?" he asks, trying his best to relax, despite the amount of pain he's in.

The guide appears as if he's quick to answer, but he hesitates, sorrow forming in his eyes. He looks away from him, towards the ceiling, towards the floor. He takes a deep breath, and then tries to speak again, but his voice falters.

"Enjolras…you do know what happened, right?" his voice cracks, and Enjolras nods. Why wouldn't he? He was there when it happened. "So you are aware that you were in an accident?"

"Of course." Something isn't right, something's wrong, he can feel it. The sadness and the stillness…there is something going on, something he's not being told.

"The car's a wreck, front end and passenger side quite damaged, not enough to be considered totaled, but that is, of course, a matter of opinion. The other driver is alright, a few scratches here and there, a broken arm and a concussion, nothing too bad. You've been unconscious for two days. There was no damage to the property that your car slid into, just the tire tracks where your car traveled before it stopped—"

"Éponine! The baby!" he interrupts as soon as the thoughts come to mind. He had nearly forgotten them, amidst the cloudiness and the pain. He scans the room, but she's nowhere in sight—the hospital bed beside him is empty. "Combeferre, where is she? Are they okay?"

He is told to quiet down, to calm down, to relax, but he can't. His thoughts are too focused on the location and state of his wife and unborn child. The fact that she's not in there with him is a cause for his concern. Why isn't she there? Why isn't she at least in the other bed beside him? Why isn't she with him?

His voice turns into a cry, a plea, as he continues to badger Combeferre on her whereabouts, getting no response other than the guide's desperate attempts to get him to calm down, but his words are just as helpful as using a fork to eat soup with—In other words, it's not working at all.

A tall man in a white lab coat comes in, who he can guess is the doctor, gesturing for Combeferre to come near. There is a short exchange of words, Combeferre nods, and the guide returns to his side, stroking Enjolras' forearm gently, trying to get him under control, warning Enjolras of what will come if he doesn't relax. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the syringe and the needle being handled by the doctor, making him fully conscious of what will happen if he doesn't calm down. Only then, reluctantly, does the resisting and pleading cease.

Almost everything is explained to him a few days later.

Well…not exactly _explained_…

Combeferre, with Joly's assistance, helps him into a wheelchair and wheels him around the hospital's floors. The hypochondriac follows them slowly into the elevator, his normally cheerful-self quite the opposite. Even his voice contains some darkness, but as to why, he doesn't know, just as he instructs Combeferre to press the "down" button on the elevator.

It all seems to be taking forever, getting there, wherever "there" is. He asks of Combeferre to speed up his pace, but his request is ignored and denied. Joly walks just as slow, as if he doesn't want to go near their destination, only accompanying them for the heck of it.

Finally, after wandering the halls for what seemed like ages (he swears they went in circles for a while), Combeferre and Joly freeze, complete silence taking over. No one is going by them, and whatever sounds are normally heard are nonexistent. The hall is completely still, a slight shadow surrounding the trio in a place that might as well be abandoned.

"_Morgue_." he reads aloud, slightly puzzled.

He stares up at the word that labels the door, and at first, he thinks this is their version of some sick and horrid joke, but when he looks at the expressions on their faces, he is hit hard with the harsh truth of reality.

It can't be true! Surely, this was a lie. She was just fine, everything was going so well. She was healthy, happy, not a sign of ailment. Seven-and-a-half months along in her pregnancy and she was as excited as she could be, they both were. She was going to be a mother, and he, a father, but suddenly that's all gone now, losing them both so quickly in something such as an accident.

It wasn't supposed to be this way! She wasn't supposed to die, not now, not when they're barely in their thirties, their youth still shining through. They were supposed to grow old together, her teasing him as he loses his hair and him picking out any gray strands among her dark brown waves. They were supposed to sit back in rocking chairs on a porch as their grandchildren played in the front lawn. He won't even have that now.

His first instinct is to lash out at them, beg to them that this isn't true, that this is some sort of dream. He wants to scream, to shout, to yell, to bang his fist against the wall. He wants to get out of the damn wheelchair, ignore the pain he's in and run to get as far away from that place as fast as he can.

But all that comes out is a strangled cry.

Combeferre leads him away, Joly taking over in wheeling Enjolras around. He's being taken back to his room, he's sure of it.

Good. More painkillers. At least his physical pain will be gone for awhile.

They go past his floor and he's about to protest, but the guide's hushed voice keeps him silent.

When the metal doors open once more, he tries to argue with them again, but Combeferre scolds him in a gentle whisper.

He tries to make sense of it all as he is wheeled through the halls, hearing the sound of wailing newborns and new parents fawning over their children from almost every room they pass. He can picture himself in one of them, him standing beside Éponine as she cradles their newborn in her arms, sweetly arguing over who the child resembles most, a fantasy that can no longer be.

Joly stops the wheelchair directly in front of a closed door as Combeferre points directly to its corresponding sign.

_NICU_.

He doesn't understand this, not at first. His wife and child are dead. Why bring him to a place that is solely a harsh reminder of what he can never have? Why can't they just leave him alone, let him be, let his mind rot in grief in the silence of his room? Why must they continue on with this trip throughout the halls? Why must this be one of their stops?

He is fighting the tears that threaten to fall, an inner battle he is struggling to win. His breath is shaking as he tries to hide the feelings that his companions know without a doubt he is feeling. He makes a feeble attempt to escape from the confines of the chair, but Joly stops him gently by placing a hand on his left shoulder.

"I want to go back." he demands with a quivering breath. "Just…take me back. I've seen enough."

"Are you sure?" the hypochondriac asks with caution.

Enjolras nods. "Yes, I am."

"So you don't want to meet your son?" Combeferre inquires, his voice calm as the man in the wheelchair tries to process the question.

"Pardon?"

That couldn't be right…there must be some mistake. Between the seriousness of the crash and what happened to Éponine, there was no way the child could have survived.

Right?

Combeferre then explains everything. How Éponine was in such a serious state when she was brought in, covered in her own blood, yet miraculously still alive with some consciousness. How he was being treated elsewhere for his own injuries. How she kept asking for him, how he was, where he was, even in her dying breaths. How they managed to save the baby with an emergency C-section the second she flat-lined.

"It was her choice." Combeferre finishes. "It was in her best interests that if she couldn't survive that your child could."

"He's a lucky one." Joly adds. "No sign of injury as a result of the accident, only born prematurely. Otherwise, he's perfectly healthy."

"I…I don't understand…" Enjolras shakes his head with an uneven breath.

Combeferre and Joly look at one another, a small smile forming on each of their faces.

The former crouches down in front of him. "I don't think you have to."

Enjolras manages a light chuckle, followed by a sniff. He looks upwards in the sign's direction, before finally nodding with little hesitation.

Combeferre stands up and reaches for the doorknob, opening the door as quietly as possible as Joly wheels Enjolras in. The first apparent thing in the room is he's not alone. There are other parents here looking into the incubators, some with nurses standing by, others not. Some incubators stand alone, or have nurses attending to the children inside.

Joly stops at one of the ones in the middle, informing Enjolras that was the one, though he didn't really need the hypochondriac to know which one is his.

Perhaps it's some paternal instinct that he just automatically _knows_.

He's in some sort of awe, if one would call it that. It could be the knowledge that that is _his_ son in there, his little chest faintly rising and falling with every breath. It could be that despite the circumstances, against the odds, he survived. Or maybe there's no need for any sort of an explanation. The fact that he's at a loss for words should be enough.

"_Sounds like I've silenced the grand orator_." she would tease, either after a long argument that had left him red in the face or when he would attempt to comment on how she looked on any given day, his reply usually being clenched teeth and an exasperated sigh or a simple nod.

And just like that, he's in tears. Not because he is alone (because he's not, between the Amis and Azelma and Gavroche), but because he now realizes has to do this without her, raise their son without her being there and watching him grow. She'll never see his first steps or run to them when he's scared and sneak into their bed, or witness him crying when he falls off a bike and scrapes his knee, or watch him attend his first day of school. She'll never get to tend to him when he's sick. She'll never get to meet the first girl (or guy) he brings home. She won't have the chance to cry as their son heads off to college. She will never get to meet the grandchildren they might have. None of that.

They're things he will have to do without her. He will have to be the one who comforts him when he's scared or hurt, or smile when he steps onto the school bus for the first time. He will be the one who has to coax him into taking the medicine when he's being fussy while he's sick. He'll be the one trying to avoid "the talk" before he's forced to do it one way or another. He will have to stand without her as their son leaves home. He will be without her when he holds their first grandchild…

…He hasn't even held his own son yet.

He's aware of how far ahead he is thinking, and it pains him to know that they are things that Éponine will never have the chance to experience.

He misses her, to put it simply.

He thinks of a day when his son will come home from school and ask about his mother, why she isn't there, why it's just the two of them.

For now, it's a conversation he'll dread, but perhaps with time, it'll become easier.

When he's asked if he would like to hold his son, the first few times he answers "No," not wanting to risk anything between the newborn's health and aggravating his injuries. It isn't until about a month afterwards when he holds his son, Gabriel Michel. Her middle name in another form, his middle name, respectfully.

Not until about two months after the accident is Enjolras finally allowed to take his son home. He takes a deep breath before walking through the front door of the two-bedroom home, a heavy feeling on his shoulders. It's the first time he has been there since the day of the accident, his grieving heart barely being able to bare the sight of it. Instead, for less than two months, he spent his nights between the hospital and Combeferre's small apartment, not being able to stand even the thought of going near that house where he and Éponine had spent the past few years together.

The house is cold and dark, an eerie silence throughout it. The curtains are closed, blinds shut. All he can hear is the faint humming of the refrigerator in the next room.

Gabriel makes a small cry from his car seat, before turning his head and letting out a yawn. The infant is all bundled-up from the cold, the weather still freezing despite it being March.

Enjolras closes the door behind him, and then makes his way to the thermostat up to twenty degrees Celsius, not wanting to take any chances in his son becoming ill from chill in the house. He takes note that someone has been in his home recently, possibly even earlier that day, to tidy it up a bit after its lack of occupants for two months. Things that would have expired from past weeks are not in the fridge (though there are plenty bottles of formula in there). Almost everything is dusted. The windows are smudge/dirt-free. There are no dishes in the sink. Whoever it was, they made sure that the burden on him was lessened as much as possible.

His son starts to fuss in his car seat, and Enjolras is quick to attend to him, Gabriel being a distraction from his darker thoughts. In fact, that's all Gabriel has been in recent weeks: a distraction for his father to avoid a lasting depression-like state. The infant has kept him from thinking about his wife's death constantly. He allows his mind to wander to a better place, instead of wallowing in grief, allowing him to look ahead of him instead of the dark clouds behind him.

Adjusting to life as a single parent is surprisingly easy for him in the first few weeks. It's the long, sleepless nights that take its toll.

He had imagined a few months ago that he and Éponine would take turns in tending to their son, but with her gone, everything is left to him. A small cry in the night and he crawls out of bed, walking half-asleep to the kitchen to warm-up some formula for him, or rocking him back to sleep and trying to figure out what's wrong.

It's one of those nights when he's trying to get Gabriel to fall asleep. He wanders into the living room, whispering quietly to try to get him to calm down, when a flicker of moonlight catches its reflection on the glass of a picture frame, just enough to capture his attention. It could be the lack of sleep that allows his curiosity to go towards it. He picks it up, squinting in attempt to make out the image in the darkness.

It's his and Éponine's wedding photo.

He nearly falls back onto the couch, but catches himself early enough to be able to mind his son's head as he keeps his opposite hand attached to the frame. How beautiful she looked that day, donning a shimmering white gown with a red sash around her waist, her long, dark brown locks pinned back on her left side by white rose hair clip. How happy she was, how he was…

Why does that seem so far away?

He remembers the day well. Getting up early that morning to get to the town hall on time before heading off to the church, his heart pounding in his chest as he saw her coming down the aisle, nearly passing out in the middle of the ceremony, the smile on her face the moment they were pronounced man and wife. He remembers the small reception at the Corinth, where they shared their first dance and how she nearly cried throughout it, what Combeferre said in his best man speech, how Azelma gave her speech as the matron of honor and caught the bouquet, when he had whispered to Jehan that he was next in good spirit. He remembers the car ride home and carrying her through the threshold, hearing her laugh as she told him such wasn't necessary and how cliché it was, how he didn't care. She managed to laugh at that even, her bright smile managing to light the room up in the middle of the night.

She was taken too soon. Oh, what he'd give to have just one more day with her!

He knows it's in vain to think that, but then again, how fair was it for her to die? She had so many years ahead her. She had just gotten a promotion, they were having a baby, she had everything going for her.

He recalls the day Éponine had told him the latter of the news. He had not been having a great day, and on top of that, it was pouring outside. Honestly, all he wanted to do the moment he walked through the front door was to lie down and relax, and not worry about anything else. What happened otherwise did not matter that day.

At least up until the point she told him.

"_Isn't today just wonderful?"_ she had said over dinner, looking day-dreamingly towards the window. _"I mean, given that it's raining, isn't it still beautiful?"_

"_Charming,"_ he deadpanned, taking note of the lack of alcohol on the table, believing he needed a drink after what he had been through that day. _"Are we out of wine?"_

She scowled at him_. "No. In fact, there might be some in the fridge down in the cellar."_

"Oh, good. I could use a glass." He stood up from his chair and moved towards the cellar, pausing before opening the door. "Would you like any?"

"_Um, no thank you."_ Éponine said gently. He was surprised by this, partially because she never said 'No' to a decent glass of wine, and he shrugged and was reaching for the doorknob. _"But is it necessary at all, dear? Would it be okay to go without for a night?"_

"_It's not like we're saving it for some special occasion, Éponine."_ he countered. _"Besides, it's been a long day and—"_

"_You don't need it to survive. A glass of water would work just as well."_ She was being patient with him, but even then, he could tell her patience was wearing thin.

"_Yes, but after what I have been through today, I just want to forget it and not—"_

"_Lucien Michel Enjolras, you do not need it, so get your behind back at this table, or you will _not_ be sleeping on a bed tonight!"_ she threatened, whatever patience she had left in her gone. Then suddenly, without any apparent reason, she rose out of her chair and rushed to their room, slamming the door behind her.

He hadn't meant to hurt her feelings that night, and he regretted his behavior even more when he looked inside the envelope (which contained the first sonogram and a small note that read, "Guess who's going to be a father?!" in her neat manuscript) she had dropped on the floor on her way to their room.

He knocked on the door and her immediate response was, _"Go away."_ After apologizing and reasoning with her, she unlocked the door and let him in, both of them taking a seat on the foot of the bed, him still holding on to the envelope.

"_So is it true?"_ he asked after a time of silence passed. _"Are you really…?"_

With tearstains on her face, she nodded. _"Yes. I'm about eight weeks along, they believe."_

"_How long have you known?"_

"_Since this morning."_ she said quietly, moving closer to him. _"I was going to call you, but then I just decided to wait because I wanted to see the look on your face."_

"_And me being a jerk probably wasn't the best course of action."_ he said regretfully. _"I'm sorry."_

"_I forgive you."_ she smiled, her small hand on top of his shoulder. _"Now, how about we get back to dinner before it gets cold?"_

He can't remember what he had said after that, but it put a smile on her face.

The next day he had stopped at the library and brought home at least half-a-dozen books on what to expect in the coming months, advice, etc. He remembers the first day Éponine noticed her stomach was no longer flat, the day she felt the baby move for the first time, the day she felt the baby kick.

It all seems to be so long ago, yet all of that happened not even a year ago.

Now he's holding that child, who is now sleeping soundly in his arms, and Enjolras can't help but smile.

"She loved you before she even knew you, met you." he says quietly, not caring that Gabriel would never remember this exact conversation. Just getting the words out there is enough to ease his pain ever-so-slightly. "She'll never have that chance…but I am going to make sure that you do.

"She couldn't wait for you. I don't think I could even match the anticipation." Enjolras pauses for a moment, watching the infant yawn in his unconsciousness. "I think she wanted this so much more than I did sometimes."

He remembers her going about the house, making phone calls, finishing up the Nursery here-and-there, having back-up plans in case they couldn't make it to the hospital in time (which probably caused him the most fear), double-checking the list of what they would need (if they didn't have it already). She even had a suitcase packed by the end of the fourth month.

"I miss her, and odds are it'll be that way for years to come." he takes a deep breath. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I never imagined doing this by myself, not without her, and in case you can't tell…I'm no expert at this either, but I'll most definitely try, if you'll have me..."

His eyes could be tricking him, or it could be the moonlight playing games with him, but for only a brief moment, does he swear that he saw the infant smile.


End file.
